


Hey Baby, Where You Going? (can I give you a ride?)

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint’s not <i>sulking</i>, he just – it sucks to be stood up, okay?</p>
<p>Thankfully, Coulson is there to make things better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Baby, Where You Going? (can I give you a ride?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/gifts).



> Written for kisleth who'd had a bad day. Beta’d by the fantastic Ralkana. THANK YOU LADIES!!

Fuck everything.

Just fuck _everything_. Fuck his life, fuck this date, and fuck fucking Michael Donaldson, who'd texted Clint on the burner phone he keeps around for personal reasons and who’d promised to meet for drinks tonight, but who'd just called Clint five minutes ago and cancelled because he'd "met someone else" while waiting at the bar.

Like it’s _Clint's_ fault he'd had to postpone their first date because he'd been sent on a mission or _his_ problem that he'd texted Michael and said he'd be ten minutes late – just ten minutes! – because even Clint knows that shirts that have recently been set on fire can no longer be considered date-night material.

Clint grinds his teeth together and releases the arrows, two of them, held between the first and third fingers of his left hand. He reaches back for another pair, but comes up empty. He lowers his bow and realizes that he’s panting – harsh, wet breaths that feel like they're being squeezed out of him. He'd stomped down to the range after receiving Michael's text and had just started shooting. That had been half – no, an hour ago – and Clint realizes that he might have just beaten his record for angry, not-actually-being-shot-at-but-still-shooting-pretty-fast number of arrows per sixty minute count. Maybe.

He checks again and makes sure. 

Yup.

Instead of making him feel better, that actually makes his stomach clench worse. This is where a life of crime and subsequent hero work has gotten him – left alone on a Saturday night, dicking around on the range because shooting stuff is the only thing he's good at anymore, the only thing people seem to want him for. 

He'd thought Michael might be different. Michael is a phys ed teacher Clint had run into at coffee shop the other day. Michael isn’t a superhero, isn’t from S.H.I.E.L.D., isn’t anyone who has any reason to pretend to like Clint or make like he cares about him. Mike is just a guy who’d wanted his coffee and had happened to flirt with the guy behind him in line. They'd ended up sitting together at a table in the corner, and when Michael had said, "Hey, what are you doing Thursday night?" Clint had smiled and said, "Nothing. Why, did you have something in mind?"

He'd even seemed okay with a rain-check three days ago, when Clint had called and told him he'd have to reschedule. Shit had been going down in Toyko and Clint had seen enough movies on late-night TV to know that those were the kinds of threats you wanted taken down early and taken down hard, because if you didn't, they grew into city-sized monsters hell-bent on ripping apart skyscrapers.

"Sure, man, no problem," Michael had said. "Saturday? Drinks?"

"Saturday sounds good," Clint had agreed, and he'd meant it. Spontaneous fire-spitting HYDRA agents aside, Clint had been looking forward to seeing him again. And now...

He sighs. This is why he just shouldn't try. Obviously, the life of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent is one that predisposes people to early nights in on those days they aren’t getting shot at. Most days Clint is okay with that, but sometimes he just gets _lonely_ , dammit. 

"Barton, you're still here. Perfect. You're with me."

Clint looks up and blinks. He could have sworn he'd been alone a second ago, but suddenly Coulson is here with his Agent face on and Clint had been _positive_ he'd left hours ago. "Sir?"

"I have a mission I need your assistance on. Are you available?"

"I, er – " Clint swallows and runs his fingers over his arrows to count them in his head, doing anything he can to stall for time. Coulson had been there, in the van, less than three hours ago when Clint had snapped at Sitwell for saying the mission might take a while because he'd had a hot date tonight. "Yes." 

"Good. I need you. Come with me, please."

Coulson turns on his heel and leaves the range and, well, when he puts it like that, Clint can't very well say no, can he? He confirms his arrow count and takes off after Coulson, gripping his bow. Coulson's almost out of sight down the corridor and Clint has to hurry to catch up. It doesn't occur to him until they're in the elevator that he's still in his civilian clothes, the button-down shirt being the only one he owns and very firmly in the 'date night' category. "Oh, shit. I forgot to change."

"That's all right, Barton. Think of this mission as undercover."

Clint blinks but "... okay" is all his says, biting back the questions that want to come. He's usually an asshole to the up-and-up's, but Coulson's actually one of the cool ones. They've been working together on and off for almost a year now, and Clint likes the senior agent. He's quiet, sometimes distant, but he gets shit done and Clint's beginning to realize that Coulson has a snarky, downbeat sense of humour that’s well hidden behind those tailored suits.

He's also speculated, on more than one occasion, what _else_ Coulson might be hiding beneath the suits, but that's a thought for another day. If Coulson's tagged him for a mission, then it's going to be something that needs Clint's eyes up-front-and-centre and not lingering on Coulson’s ass.

Even if it is a _fine_ ass. Michael's is better, but – 

And there he goes, feeling pissed off again. Coulson must catch the shift because he glances over, but thankfully doesn't say anything while they exit the building and climb into Coulson's beautiful car.

Clint can't help but let go of his low feelings for a second because _damn_ , she is a beautiful machine.

Coulson actually smiles. "Clint Barton, meet Lola. Lola, this is Clint."

Clint reaches out and very carefully pats her dashboard. "Pleased to meet you, gorgeous."

Coulson doesn't say anything, but the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. He turns the engine over and Clint detatches his quiver and does up his seatbelt. Coulson accelerates smoothly into traffic. 

Clint keeps his hand on his bow as they travel, only half-paying attention to the road because Coulson is driving and Clint trusts Coulson. He snaps out of it when they coast to a stop. Clint is left blinking at a mid-to-high priced apartment building, small because this is New York and real estate is ridiculous, but with enough windows to be kind of pleasant despite the concrete and tile.

Coulson takes his keys out of the ignition and steps out of the vehicle. "Coming, Barton?"

Clint glances around one more time before unbuckling his seatbelt and adjusting his quiver. He's not called "Hawkeye" for nothing. He can read the street sign despite the distance, and though he's never been here in person before, he knows that it matches the address in Coulson's S.H.I.E.L.D. file. 

Like he was going to trust his life to a voice on the other end of the comm without knowing anything about him. Please.

Still, he's followed Coulson this far already. Clint hoofs it to catch up to the senior agent and keeps a grip on his bow, ducking through the doorway around Coulson when he gestures Clint into the lobby. 

They walk in silence up the three floors to Coulson's apartment. Clint waits while Coulson goes through the ritual required to open his door – key first, then retinal scan, and then a sharp jab from the lancet that pops up on the doorhandle and analyzes a sample of Coulson's blood. Clint has to do the same whenever he goes back to his apartment and as much as he values the security, it's sometimes easier to come in through the window, instead.

Yeah, the window's twelve stories up, but hey – it's not like Clint's ever been afraid of heights.

The door finally clicks open and Coulson is the first to step inside. He gives the apartment a once over before turning to smile at Clint and, huh, that's a real smile that is, right there, and maybe a slightly embarrassed one, too, going by the faint touch of a blush staining Coulson's cheeks.

Clint can't help but grin. "A mission, huh?"

Coulson huffs an abashed laugh. "You looked pretty miserable," he confesses. "I know it's not really going to be the same as whoever you had waiting for you but, pizza and beer? My treat?"

It's a good thing that Clint's a quick thinker because it takes him less than a second to realize that maybe his inappropriate, completely-one-sided, this-guy-is-completely-out-of-my-league crush isn’t quite so hopeless after all. 

"Sounds perfect," Clint says, and smiles back at Coulson as he walks inside. "In fact, it sounds even better than."

 

The End


End file.
